


In My Stead

by cccahill18



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dogs, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:17:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cccahill18/pseuds/cccahill18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When checking in on John during a brief return to London, Sherlock finds someone to take care of his friend while he continues on his mission to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Stead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daleksanddetectives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daleksanddetectives/gifts).



> Apologies this was so late, my Sherlock Secret Santa recipient! I need to work on better estimating how long it takes me to finish things! Thanks to [lovegoods](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lovegoods) for looking this over and encouraging me along!

Sherlock made a conscious effort _not_ to let himself shiver as the rain finally permeated the thickness of the Belstaff. His mental facilities were strong enough to control the transport, he told himself. That didn’t stop the quieter voice in his head from telling him that the rain really was a more convenient excuse to shiver than what he’d been fighting for the last . . . thirty minutes? Hour? He was honestly surprised to find he’d lost count. A quick glance at his wristwatch told him he’d been standing on the rooftop for closer to two hours.

John, in his (dull, pedestrian, _new_ ) flat hadn’t moved either during that time. He was watching some sort of generic action film, based on his rapt attention and indeed the length of time that had passed. It was different, still, than what Sherlock remembered when John had watched such things. John was much more serious now. Less relaxed. _Why?_

“Obvious,” Sherlock finally muttered, for his ears alone. He’d only ever seen John watching those inane films when he was there too, sitting next to him or at least elsewhere in the room. Only pretending to ( _well, or at least working at half-speed_ ) ignore John. Perhaps John had known that all along. Maybe his small smiles and desire for sodium-rich snack foods wasn’t based solely on the experience of watching the films, but on watching them with _him_. Enjoying his company during something John enjoyed and trying to sneak in some extra calories when he knew Sherlock hadn’t eaten.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to physically stop that stream of thought as streams of water came faster down his neck. This was _stupid_ , allowing his feelings to cloud his reasoning—

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of car squealing to a stop in the alley that lay between him and John. Sherlock glanced down the two stories to see a door open, a bag thrown out, and the car speed away as quickly as it had arrived. A brief moment of silence was followed by a high pitch squeal coming from the discarded bag.

Someone had abandoned some sort of animal, likely a young dog by the sound of it. Sherlock had processed the noise and nearly dismissed it as entirely irrelevant when John suddenly leaned forward on the sofa, cradling his head in his hands. A certain scene acting as a trigger? Or had the movie ended, ending his distraction? _Distraction from what?_ More data needed, but . . .maybe that wasn’t necessarily true. Maybe he didn’t know what exactly had prompted this look of distress ( _stiff shoulders, painful-looking grip on hair, not to mention the fact that the change in angle made it obvious he’d lost weight from the last time he’d seen John in the graveyard_ ), but he imagined a man with far more modesty than himself would lay the blame in the same place. Well, maybe. Modesty never really was his area.

Regardless, his body ( _transport_ ) was actively shaking now. Of course, John, ever the caring idiot, would be suffering far more than his original calculations. Sherlock had thought looking in on John during his brief trip back to London would would put to rest the frequent thoughts ( _certainly not fantasties_ ) he had of the man, seeing him moving on as normal. Certainly not moved on--Sherlock didn’t think that possible--but getting on. The same as he ever was for when Sherlock finally was able to return for good. By all logical reasoning, this reaction should have made him feel better, that John was suffering as much as he was, but it didn’t.

He scowled as he heard the squealing again, weaker this time.

* * *

The dog was a runt of a thing, no more than a week old if Sherlock had to guess. Black fur, clean. Likely poodle. Breeder probably getting rid of a dog that wouldn’t sell. Not with a back left leg that was little more than a shriveled stump.

The thing had quieted when Sherlock had picked it up out of the bag. Pleasant enough disposition. It ( _she_ ) seemed content in the crook of his arm, with only low mewing noises indicating she was likely hungry. Its shivers had dissipated, even though his own coat was still soaked. An improvement over the paper bag.

Not just a breeder, then. A so-called "puppy mill," where it would just be easier to dispose of the imperfect runt than give it the extra care it would need to make a profitable sale.

She ( _it?_ ) would be dead well before morning if he hadn't intervened, though more intensive care would be necessary to ensure long-term survival. Care that he was certain ( _more or less_ ) a certain former army doctor with an attraction to broken things and too much time on his hands would be able to give.

Sherlock unwound his scarf with one hand while the other cradled the puppy close as he walked from the alley around to the front of John's new building. He paused by the main entryway, keeping to the shadows as he wrapped ( _swaddled_ ) the dog in his scarf. Blue, and smelling of him, but not the same he'd worn before the fall. Something that John would connect with companionship, but not overpower him.

She mewed louder once more as Sherlock placed her on the top step, sounding far more like a cat than the dog she would grow up to be. He rang John's bell several times before briskly entering the shadows once more. The hour should ensure that no one saw the puppy before John, but he lingered to make sure. Certainly not to get one last look at his best friend before fleeing the country once again. ( _Sentiment._ )

Thirty seconds stretched into forty-five and Sherlock was seriously considering ringing the doorbell and not stopping until John arrived at the doorstep ( _and what then?_ ) when he finally heard movement behind the door at second fifty-two. The door opened and Sherlock found it difficult to breathe.

"If this is someone's idea of a joke..." John sighed, and Sherlock, properly hidden away, could picture the exact face he was making in his mind. Sherlock could practically hear his friend pause though to look at the lump in front of him.

"Bloody Christ, what...what's this?"

The mewing got louder, but changed it's location. Sherlock smiled briefly.

"Hello there. Now where did you come from?" John's head would be flipping around, but Sherlock knew there was only a 10% chance he'd venture over to where he was hiding. Not with the rain and the vulnerability of the dog in his arms, in addition to the fact that John knew very well how far someone could get in a minute.

"Let's get you inside, love." Cooing. Protective.

The door clicked and Sherlock was left only the sound of rain pattering onto the pavement. John would unwrap her, see her disfigurement. Love her more for it. 

Sherlock pushed up his collar around his bare neck and tried to reason why he felt warmer than he had in months, even as the storm encased his solitary figure walking away from the man always on his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> An added treat for daleksanddetectives :)  
> 


End file.
